


A House or a Home

by cointeach



Category: In the Loop (2009) & The Thick of It, The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Gen, domestic!malcolm, he rarely sees his family but when he does he cherishes it, his niece plays the clarinet, its sickly sweet tbh, this is literally malcolm coming home from work and thinking thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-18 10:40:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28990848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cointeach/pseuds/cointeach
Summary: Malcolm rarely sees his family, it doesn't mean he doesn't think about them. Little pieces of them are spread all throughout his house. Sometimes they visit.Literally just some domestic-fluffy-Malcolm goodness.
Comments: 16
Kudos: 8





	1. A House

The house was dark and empty when Malcolm finally arrived home. Through the windows, the streetlights covered everything in a soft orange hue and cast long shadows across the hallway. He locked the door behind him and slipped off his shoes, leaving them in a pile. He tossed his jacket over the bannister – he would be wearing it again in a few hours, there was no point in putting anything away properly.

The smell of cooking lingered in the air, something with onions and rosemary. He made his way through the front room and into the kitchen, flicking on the undercabinet lights which filled the space with a warm off-white glow. The dishwasher hummed quietly in the corner and there was a pile of plates and glasses drying next to the sink. A note, scrawled across a flyer about bin collection days changing and _what it means for you,_ sat on the countertop.

_Leftovers are in the fridge, kids helped cook – S x_

He smiled, tossing the note in the bin. He put the dishes away in the cupboard, giving them a cursory wipe with a tea towel, and wiped down the surface to get rid of any residual water – as chaotic as his organisation was, he couldn’t stand actual _mess._ The fridge, slightly impractically placed in the hallway (it was the only place that it would fit, it was so huge, and at the time of remodelling somehow the _lines_ of the design became more important than _practicality_ ) contained a plate of spaghetti covered in a creamy red sauce and little else. He was reminded, again, how much he needed to go shopping. Or order shopping, his sister was always on at him to just get it delivered.

_It saves the hassle, Malc._

Privately, he detested the idea of ordering online; having someone else know exactly what you eat in a given week, have them pick it out, make substitutes for you? No thanks. He didn’t want a stranger knowing how many satsumas and packets of space raiders he ate each week. It was an embarrassing enough amount already without some random spotty twenty year old judging him for it. He had promised his sister he would try it out, however, and he figured he would have to do so at least once just to keep her happy.

He popped the pasta in the microwave and briefly pulled his phone out to check his emails. Nothing had arrived in the last ten minutes that couldn’t wait for tomorrow. He leant against the counter and watched the plate spin behind the glass door, letting his brain quieten down for a moment. For once, there was no urgent matter needing attending, no crisis. Just a quiet, empty house. He ran a hand across his face and sighed. It was moments like this that he felt all of his fifty years, in his bones and his back and his fingers. How was it that he could go to sleep one night, young and fit and on top of the world, and by the next morning he was grey-haired and aching? When had that happened?

The microwave dinged loudly, returning his wandering mind to the present. He pulled a fork from the drawer, slamming it closed with his hip, and carried the steaming plate to the couch. The heat seared his fingers and he dropped it on the coffee table with a loud _thunk_.

He flicked the corner lamp on and blew gently on his fingertips, seeing the scattered colouring books and pens and _for god sake, Amy’s left her fucking clarinet book again,_ covering the wooden table. He gathered everything into a rough pile, dropping it on the cabinet under the TV to deal with later. As he did so, a small slip of paper fell from one of the books and floated to the floor, slipping under the coffee table. Malcolm debate whether it was worth picking it up before sighing and crouching down – knees clicking, _old_ – to find it. If the cleaner found it she would only throw it in the bin – she was efficient but not very sentimental.

He grasped the paper between two fingers and stood, holding it under the light to examine what was on it.

A drawing, definitely by Amy, Callum didn’t have nearly enough patience or artistic ability (not his fault, he was only six, perhaps it would come, although Malcolm had his doubts), of four people and a horse in a field with a tree and a smiling sun in the corner. Garish colours excluded, he had to admit, it was surprisingly good for a nine year old – he knew exactly what it depicted as soon as he saw it.

He had taken the kids and his sister to one of those family farms; the ones where the kids could pet the animals and learn about how to take care of them and play on some monolithic wooden playground. It had been a rare break from ministers and politics and catastrofucks (he loved that word, stole it from Jamie as soon as he heard it). Amy had been completely enamoured with this huge brown horse – its head was the size of a spaniel and its feet looked like they could crush heads – as soon as she saw it. Wouldn’t leave it alone, even when it was time for lunch. She took her sandwiches and sat on the verge next to the fence to eat, feeding the horse bit of grass. He remembered her giggling every time its nose rubbed against her palm. He, frankly, thought it was a terrifying beast. It looked dumb as doorposts and had curled its lips up at one point, revealing ginormous yellow teeth. It wasn’t something Malcolm had particularly wanted to get close to.

As is the way with kids, however, Amy came tearing up to them, demanding a family photo with the colossus and who was he to say no?

He found himself standing as near as he dared, camera in the hands of some stranger telling him to _move in a bit more, just a bit more._ He had shuffled, unwillingly, closer to the horse which stood with its head drooping over the fence for Amy to pet. He had cautiously rested a hand across its neck, the coarse black mane thicker and bouncier than he imagined.

 _Cheese!_ They had called more than enough times for a good picture before the stranger handed the camera back to his sister. The horse snorted, raising its head quickly to full height and startling him, he jumped out the way so fast he bumped into his nephew and knocked him into the grass. Amy giggled profusely and began chanting _Uncle Malc is sca-red, Uncle Malc is sca-red._

To his disappointment, Callum jumped up to join in, the wee traitor, uninjured and covered in grass stains. Malcolm had found himself momentarily embarrassed – heat rushing to his cheeks – before grinning widely and telling them that if they carried on like that there’d be no ice-creams later.

His sister had chided him, smacking him lightly on the arm, and they had left the huge dumb creature behind to explore the rest of the farm.

Malcolm felt himself smiling at the drawing in his hands. It _had_ been a good day.

He turned the paper over, seeing a title written in purple glitter pen in the bottom corner:

_Callum, Mum, me and Uncle Malc meet the BFG._

The letters looped together in wiggly cursive – something he was frankly surprised was still taught in schools.

He walked back to the kitchen and fumbled in the junk drawer for some blue tack. Carefully, he affixed the drawing to his wall, next to all the other drawing and cards and newspaper clippings he kept of his family. They were growing up far, far too quickly for his liking. He could still remember holding Amy for the first time, so tiny and red and screaming blue murder.

He dropped into the couch and lifted the plate from the coffee table, twirling a mouthful of spaghetti around the fork. As he took his first mouthful he figured, actually, maybe he didn’t mind the kids growing up, _especially_ if this was how they cooked. If they carried on like this, they’d be Michelin starred chefs by their late teens. He stretched out along the couch and flicked the TV on, letting himself be lulled into relaxation by the BBC 24 hour news channel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to find a way to get the phrase 'muckle beast' in here but as much as I may say it, I just can't imagine Malcolm ever saying it ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	2. A Home

“Hello, hello, hello,” Malcolm called, slamming the door behind him and tossing his jacket on to the bannister.

The house was warm and bright. He slipped his shoes off and nudged then into the mound of tiny shoes beside the door. Brightly coloured backpacks and lunchboxes lay in a heap on the stairs.

A clarinet sounded from the front room, breathy and squeaking and offbeat, attempting a galling rendition of _The Drunken Sailor_ if he wasn’t mistaken. He made his way down the corridor, stopping at the fridge to grab a Fanta. It was full, for once, he had finally caved and taken his sister’s advice to do an online shop. He wouldn’t admit it, but it _was_ easier than going to the shops, and much less hassle. Cartons of orange juice lined the door and one vegetable box was filled with satsumas, the other with colourful fresh veggies he hoped to use. There were some vaguely healthy-looking ready meals on one shelf, while a dozen tins of Fanta and a solitary carton of milk took up another.

He shoved the living room door open, a burst of heat and light and sound hitting him. Callum sat, cross-legged, in front of the TV playing the Wii, _Mario Kart,_ Malcolm guessed. As soon as the wee terror saw him, he tossed the controller to the floor, narrowly missing a half-full glass of juice, hopped up and over the couch, and flung himself at Malcolm. He barely had time to drop his folders before grabbing his nephew and squeezing him tightly.

“Hiya, wee man, what’ve you been up to then, eh? What’s the story, jackanory?” He held the boy at arm’s length as he wriggled gleefully before placing him on the stairs. For six years old, the kid was heavy.

“I had readin’ group today!” Callum exclaimed, running around the sofa and back to his game. “I read a _whole page_ out loud in front of everyone an’, an’, and I didn’t make _one_ mistake!”

Malcolm sometimes struggled to believe how fucking _English_ the kid sounded. His sister had only moved down south a couple of years ago but Callum was already picking up a distinctly middle class south of England accent. He was glad that Amy, at least, had retained a distinct Glaswegian twang.

“Oh yeah? Check you, gonna have a proper wee Cicero on our hands if we don’t watch out,” Malcolm smiled softly, gathering his folders and papers from the floor.

“Shoosh,” his sister glared from the kitchen, stirring something with one hand and holding a finger to her lips with the other, “Amy’s practicin’.”

“Aye, aye, Stella, when’s the caterwaulin’ ending? I can feel my ears starting to bleed.”

The clarinet stopped screeching.

“Piss _off,_ Uncle Malc,” Amy protested from the front room.

“Hie! Nane ae that.” Stella snapped. “Whaur’re yae hearin’ language lit that onyway?”

Amy took a breath and began playing again, tapping her foot in time to the tutor’s pen tapping the music stand, and ignoring her mother.

“Uncle Malc says it,” Callum provided, unhelpfully, not looking away from his race. Given the intensity with which he played, Malcolm couldn’t understand how he always ended up in twelfth place.

“Uncle Malc better no be sayin’ _onyhing_ lit that, or he’s in faur a skelpin’,” Stella eyed him sternly, eyebrows knitting together. Malcolm was surprised, as he always was, by how much like their mother she looked in moments like this.

“I’ve _no,_ ” he protested, dumping the wad of folders and papers on the countertop and making his way to the hob, “Christ, what is this, get-on-at-Malcolm day?”

“A’ll hae nane ae that either, thank you.” Stella held a wooden spoon out at him, threateningly.

“What?” He swiped a finger along the spoon and tasted the sauce. It was rich and deep and delicious. _Fuck,_ Stella always had been a better cook than him.

“Blasphemy. Am bringin’ these kids up right, you know, nane ae this street rat, latchkey kid stuff lit when we were wee.”

“Eh, what? When was the last time you even set foot in a church?” He protested. “Needs more salt, by the way.”

“Far mair recen’ly than you, yae reprobate,” she jabbed at him with the spoon, narrowly missing his suit jacket.

“Hoi! That’s Paul Smith!” Malcolm barked, indignant.

Stella cackled gleefully and returned to stirring the sauce, grabbing a pinch of salt from the container and sprinkling it through. Malcolm watched her for a moment, leaning back against the counter and sipping his juice. He resisted checking his emails.

“What we having, then?” He asked instead.

“Chicken, sauce, couscous, salad.” Stella punctuated each word with a point to the relevant oven, pot and dish. “Actually, if you wanna help, go’n get the tomatoes fae the fridge.”

Malcolm sighed, setting his Fanta on the surface and doing as his sister said.

“The wee yins, no the muckle yins,” Stella called.

He pulled the punnet from the veggie drawer and brought them back through, rinsing them off and setting them on the chopping board.

Amy had moved on to attempt another song, accompanied by her tutor on the piano. It could almost have been _Greensleeves_ , if Malcolm squinted. 

“Make sure yae quarter them, aye? A want Callum tae no see them. That boy never eats his veggies.” She said quietly.

“How are they?” He murmured, beginning to slice the tomatoes.

“Awrite, aye.” Stella sighed. “Ach, Amy’s upset about something at school, she willnae tell me whit, though, no matter how a ask her. Maybe you should gie it a go?”

Malcolm stopped chopping and looked over at his sister.

“Everythin’ alright?”

“She’s come hame cryin’ the last three days. Am at my wit's end. _Please.”_

He _loved_ his niece. Of course, he did. He would do anything for her, he’d known that since the first time he’d seen her, the size of his palm, beetroot red and covered in that white newborn baby goo. Curled tightly on Stella’s chest. He’d kill for that girl. But, _talk_ to her. About _crying_ and _emotions._ He’d rather call Julius Nicholson and debate the advantages of a committee to count the streetlamps. 

“Right,” he sighed, “I’ll give it a go.”

“Good.” She nodded, satisfied. “This yin’s been bouncin’ aboot lit he’s got rockets attached tae his feet all day. He ran intae the living room this mornin’ an’ knocked the DVD player off its shelf. A’ll be lucky if it isnae broke, just got it tae.” – she raised her voice, pointedly, – “Hm, tell Uncle Malc what you did this morn’, then?”

Callum turned; he had the good sense to look bashfully at his mother.

“I didn’t do nothing, it was an accident,” he whined, “I said sorry.”

“Aye, he did that, at least,” Stella relented.

Malcolm nodded and continued to chop the tomatoes, juice spilling over the chopping board and onto the surface. He scrunched his nose at the mess. Quickly, he wiped the quartered tomatoes from the board and into the salad bowl, stirring everything together in an attempt to hide the formidable things amongst the spinach and red onion. He tossed the knife into the dishwasher, kicking the door shut, before grabbing a cloth from the sink and wiping down the surfaces.

When he was satisfied they were as clean as possible, he balled up the cloth and chucked it, raising his hands in victory when it landed in the sink. He settled back against the breakfast bar, taking another sip of Fanta.

“How’re you?” He asked quietly.

“Fine.”

He glared at Stella’s back. She wouldn’t look at him.

“Stop that, yer no scary.” She said without turning. “It’s not, it’s just,” – she sighed, deep and shuddering – “just work an’ the weans an’ rushin’ fae here tae there an’ back again. Sometimes a really dinnae ken whaur a stop an’ a’hing else starts. Sorry, sorry, am just tired.”

Malcolm reached out, squeezing her shoulder.

“Maybe… I could take the kids for a weekend. You know, give you time tae recuperate.”

Stella snorted.

“Dinnae make plans yae cannae keep, Malcolm.”

“Right,” he dropped his hand from her shoulder and sipped his juice. Belatedly, he realised Amy had stopped playing. He glanced over to see her packing her clarinet into its case and nodding enthusiastically at her tutor.

“All done,” called the tutor.

He raised his can of Fanta to her in acknowledgement.

“Thanks, Claire” Stella smiled brightly, turning to the young woman, “same time next week?”

“Yeah, let me know when half-term is and we can arrange an extra lesson or two. It won’t be long until the exam.” Claire returned, stuffing music books into her backpack. Stella walked over, chatting to her as they walked to the door.

“Grade two,” Amy grinned, wandering over to the stove and peering into the pots. “Am joinin’ the school orchestra next term if a pass.”

“What’s this _if,_ I’m sure you’ll do great.” Malcolm scoffed.

“Hm, a dunno.” Amy became suddenly very interested in rearranging the spice jars on the countertop.

“How?”

“Aw, a dunno, Uncle Malc, just leave it, will yae?”

“Are ye nervous?”

“Naw.”

“Cause you don’t have to be.”

“Am not nervous,” she flicked the pepper mill onto the surface with a _clunk._

“Has someone said something to you?” He watched as she stopped fiddling.

“No… no _really,_ ” she whined, “has mum telt yae tae ask me?”

“Naw.”

“It’s just… some ae the girls at school,” she muttered.

“Doin’ what?”

“Nuthin’, just saying stuff, is all.”

“Stuff like?”

“Mum _has_ asked yae tae talk tae me!”

“No, she hasn’t. What’re they saying?”

Amy stood, scowling at the countertop, arms wrapped around her and swinging from side to side. Malcolm wasn’t sure how serious chats with nine-year-olds usually went but he didn’t think this was a good sign.

“What’s the worst thing that’ll happen if you tell me?” He asked, nudging her gently. She scowled up at him, brushing her fringe from her eyes.

“That you’ll… you’ll go’n beat them up,” Amy said, a small smile crawling across her face, “an tell their parents!”

“Well,” Malcolm said, raising his hand in the scout’s salute, “I _promise_ I won’t go and beat up your classmates _or_ tell their parents that I did, okay?”

Amy smiled, properly, and giggled, nodding enthusiastically.

“So…”

Her face dropped, eyebrows burrowing low over her bright eyes.

“They, they were sayin’ that a wisnae gonna make it intae orchestra, an’, an’ that a shouldnae _be_ at their school cause am no well off like them, an’ they always say they cannae un’erstand me when a talk but they _can_ , an’, an’,” she broke off as a sob wracked her body and tears started to stream, unbidden, down her face. She wiped at them roughly.

“Who was sayin’ that?” Malcolm asked, pulling her in for a hug.

“R-Rosie an’ Kara an’ that,” Amy replied, muffled against his stomach. He could feel a wet patch forming on his shirt.

“What are they saying that shite for? What are you sayin’ back?”

“Nuthin’”

“Nothin’?”

“Every time a try an’ say sumthing they pretend like they cannae un’erstand me,” she sobs. He rubs little circles against her back.

“What? That’s ridiculous, didn’t you get top marks for your story in class just recently?”

She nods against him.

“An’ you read it out, didn’t you?”

She nods again.

“Well, if your teacher can understand you, an’ the rest of your class can understand you, I think Rosie and Kara can understand you too, don’t you?”

“Mh, a suppose.” Amy agreed reluctantly.

“I think they’re just pretendin’ cause they know it upsets you, huh? But if _you_ pretend back to them that it doesn’t, I reckon they’ll stop.” Malcolm crouched down to eye level with his niece. “What do you think?”

“Meybe,”

“An’ if they say anythin’ else, you tell them tae piss off back tae their mansions an’ see how they like it when the proletariat come knocking, alright?” it probably went over his niece’s head, but Malcolm felt better for saying it.

“Awrite,” she giggled, “You’re no meant tae swear.”

“Well, a willnae tell your mither if you don’t,” he smiled briefly, wiping the remaining tears from her cheeks, “go’n get a tissue, yer all snotty.”

Amy nodded, darting down the corridor and into the downstairs toilet. Malcolm stood back up, knees clicking loudly, and saw Stella watching him from the front room. He raised his eyebrows at her.

She made a gesture. _Well, what happened,_ it said.

He motioned with his head for her to come closer.

“You need to go talk to that school,” he muttered once she stood beside him, “Rosie an’ Kara?”

“Ach, they’re queen bees,”

“Queen bitches,”

“They’re _nine,_ ”

“Make sure her teacher know what’s going on, am serious, she shouldn’t be going to that wanky school if she’s just going to be miserable.” He said emphatically.

Malcolm had known, from the moment his sister had shown him the brochure for the primary school, that it was a bad idea. Some posh, idealistic independent school with fees up to your eyeballs and that was before all the extracurriculars. Trips and after school clubs and additional tutoring pushed the price up to a nauseating, eyewatering, amount. He’d suggested other schools, promised to pull whatever strings needed pulled to get both the kids into the best state schools, but Stella had gotten that _look_. Bit between her teeth and not letting go. She had been overjoyed when Amy passed the entrance exam, even more so when Callum had a year later. She had immediately started planning and organising to make sure her kids could go, would fit in. They qualified for a scholarship, and a bursary, but even so Malcolm knew the budget was tight, especially with both the kids there now. He didn’t agree with public schools, Stella knew he didn’t, and she never asked for help. But, if he happened to give her some money for Christmas that coincided with the amount of fees for that year, well, he didn’t need to know where it went. It was enough that the weans were happy and learning and getting opportunities neither him nor Stella got growing up in the arse-end of Glasgow.

But Amy wasn’t happy.

“I’m not fuckin’ kidding, Stella, go’n rip them a new one an’ make sure that teacher does her fuckin’ job,” he growled.

“Right, a got it, thanks.”

“When’s dinner ready?” Callum broke into their conversation, wandering over and sticking his thumb in his mouth.

“Right noo, sweetie,” Stella said, tone immediately turning bright, “are ye hungry?”

Callum made a noise of agreement around his thumb.

“Go’n get your sister, then,” Malcolm told him, pointing to the corridor. Callum trotted off happily and Malcolm gathered cutlery noisily from the drawer. He removed plates from the cupboard and placed them on the surface next to the stove before carrying the salad and cutlery to the table.

Stella pulled the chicken from the oven, depositing a breast on each plate. She tossed some couscous on beside it and slathered each one in sauce. Malcolm returned, grabbing two plates and taking them to the table, his sister following close behind.

“Tea’s ready!” Stella called, unnecessarily, as the kids rushed to the table. “Make sure you have some salad.”

Malcolm spooned some onto his plate before realising she was talking to the kids.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d sat down for a proper homecooked meal. He hadn’t made it home earlier than ten for the last few weeks, at least. There had always been some disaster to mop up or event to attend or minister to prep for media appearances. He hadn’t seen his family for a while, perpetually missing them when they came round for Amy’s clarinet lessons. He could still feel their presence, though, in the stuff that had moved, the drawings left, the warmth, the smell. A sense of living that the otherwise desolate house rarely saw.

He’d suggested that Amy have her clarinet lessons at his house precisely so he _could_ see them. _Great tutors, better prices, we can have dinner,_ he promised. It really hadn’t worked out, though. Best laid plans, and all that. Every time he thought he’d make it out of the office by six, something new and obstructive landed in his lap, taking up his time and all his energy.

Stella understood. She said she understood. But Malcolm noticed that she stopped trying to make plans, get him to commit to anything. What was the point? He was always being called away at a moment’s notice. Stretched thin between all the different departments and ministries that tugged at him, vied for his attention. He had hundreds of moronic children to take care of, what he would do to just have the two for a while.

“Did y’see?” He asked, shovelling a forkful into his mouth. He was famished.

“What?” Stella said.

“Did that online shop like y’said.”

“Oh, aye, a did notice something tae that effect. A full fridge, for once.”

“It was good.”

“Not as teeth-pulling-excruciating as you figured?”

“Naw, it was alright, actually, even got some ice-cream.”

“What kind?” Amy piped up, immediately interested.

“Mint chocolate chip,” he smirked.

“You didnae. Really? That’s my favourite!” She exclaimed.

“Surprisingly, a know that,” Malcolm nodded sarcastically.

“Can a have some after tea?”

“Aye,”

“Naw,”

Malcolm frowned at his sister.

“If yae eat all yer chicken and salad,” Stella relented.

“Yes!” Amy did a happy little dance, rocking the dining chair from side to side.

Malcolm found himself laughing, deep and throaty, quite unexpectedly. A little bubble of warmth settled in his stomach, a cosy, pleasant feeling emanating around his body. He was drowning in it. He took a deep breath, feeling his lungs expand to an uncomfortable degree, close to bursting, at least they were working. He focussed on Callum, telling a story that only a six-year-old could think of, and smiled, nodding and laughing in all the right places, encouraging the kid to keep going. If this was drowning, he thought, he’d happily do it over and over again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part may have escaped me a wee bit. Also yes Malcolm gets more and more Scottish as he spends time with his family, convince me otherwise


End file.
